


Dictionary

by breakdancingsigma (hetawholockvengerstuck)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Multi, more to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2884211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetawholockvengerstuck/pseuds/breakdancingsigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1. Choose a word<br/>2. Write a story inspired by that word</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Delirious (Grimmons)

**Author's Note:**

> _delirious_ : In an acutely disturbed state of mind resulting from illness or intoxication and characterized by restlessness, illusions, and incoherence of thought and speech.
> 
> This chapter was originally written for the 2014 RVB Shipping Jamboree

Dexter Grif did not get sick often, but when he did, he got really fucking sick. And it was generally miserable for anyone who got near him.  
  
After the move to Valhalla, Grif came down with something. Sarge immediately declared that he would have nothing to do with the orange soldier until he got better, which left Simmons to take care of the whiny bastard.   
  
And holy shit, did Grif whine. Simmons was made aware of every ache and pain, every muscle twinge, every temperature change. It took all his willpower not to leave Grif to suffer.  
  
About a week into the ordeal, Grif went strangely silent. Rather than waking up to the sound of Grif calling for him from the other room, Simmons was able to wake up at his leisure.   
  
It was unlike Grif to sleep in when he was sick; that was part of the reason he was such a pain in the ass. So rather than try to catch a few more minutes of sleep, Simmons hurried to Grif's room to check on him.   
  
He found the orange soldier in a fitful state of sleep. A quick check told Simmons that the raging fever from the day before had gotten worse.  
  
Suddenly, Grif snapped awake. His eyes were unfocused, but the minute he spotted Simmons, a goofy grin crossed his face.  
  
"H-hey, look, an angel," he said, words slurring together. "So pretty..."  
  
Simmons blinked. "Uh...haha, very funny, Grif."  
  
His words didn't seem to register, because Grif just kept talking. "Why're you here, angel? Takin' me to heaven?" Grif sighed.  
  
"I'm not an angel, Grif, I'm your teammate. Now sit up, I'm going to get you some water."  
  
Grif tried to grab his wrist, but his hand just flopped back down. "Don' go, angel..."  
  
"Didn't you hear me? I'm Simmons, not an angel."  
  
"Isn' that...same thing?" Grif mumbled. "Mom always said...angels are th' most beautiful things...nothin' can get more beautiful than Simmons..."  
  
Simmons felt his cheeks heat up and bit back a squeak. "Okay, you're definitely sick. I'm going to--no, don't try to get up, I'll be right back. I'm just going to get you some water."  
  
Grif's eyes were drifting shut. "Hurry back, angel..."  
  
Simmons did just the opposite. He took his time getting the water, then had breakfast, then wandered around the kitchen for a while, trying to get his thoughts in order because  _holy shit Grif just called him beautiful holy shit_.  
  
Granted, Grif was sick out of his mind. It was likely he wasn't aware of what he was saying, or possibly even seeing.  
  
But still...  
  
By the time Simmons returned with water, Grif was sleeping.   
  
\-----  
  
Grif woke with a start in the middle of the night, sweating and gasping for air.  
  
"Fuck, I'm cold. Why am I cold? Where am I? Hello?"  
  
He kept yelling until he heard footsteps. A moment later, the door opened and Simmons poked his head in. "What is it now, dumbass?"  
  
"Hey, Simmons. What time is it?"  
  
"Two in the fucking morning. Did your fever break?"  
  
"Uh, I think so? Also I'm hungry."  
  
"What does that have to do with me?" Simmons asked. "I was trying to sleep."  
  
"Meh, I'm tired. I don't wanna get out of bed."  
  
Simmons groaned. "Fine, I'll get you food. But it's going to be soup, not oreos."  
  
"Whatever."  
  
Simmons turned to leave with a huff. When he was halfway down the hall, he heard Grif call after him.  
  
"Hurry back,  _angel_."  
  
Simmons blushed so hard, he felt like  _he_  had come down with a fever.


	2. Clepe (Grimmons)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _clepe_ (verb, archaic): to call; name

"What about Olivia?"

Grif looked up from the book in his hands and frowned. "Really? Olivia? Isn't that sort of plain?"

Simmons rolled his eyes. "It's a perfectly good name, Grif. It has its origins in Shakespeare--"

"No."

"But Grif--"

" _No._ I'm not naming our daughter after some fictional lady invented by a dead poet."

"He was a _playwright,_ first and foremost."

"Whatever. Next idea?"

"Um...Christine?"

Grif shook his head. "Heard it."

Simmons threw down the baby-name book and shouted, "Well, I don't see _you_ offering any suggestions! Every time  _I_ choose one, it's 'too plain' or 'too stupid' or 'too old-fashioned'!"

"Who names their kid Gretchen anymore?"

"If you know so much about naming, you do it!"

"Kalani."

Simmons paused. "What was that?"

Grif looked down at his hands. "Kalani. It's...it's Hawaiian. It was my grandmother's name."

"Kalani..." Simmons murmured. Then, "Kalani," testing it out. And again, "Kalani."

Grif fidgeted nervously. The fourth time Simmons said, "Kalani," Grif snapped, "Will you just give me an answer already?"

Simmons looked at his husband's face and noted the anxiety written there. He smiled. "I think it's beautiful. Much better than Gretchen."

With a smirk, Grif reached over and gave Simmons' shoulder a good-natured shove. "Of course it is, asshole.  _Anything_ is better than Gretchen."

"Shut up, we still have to choose a boy name."


End file.
